Krenzik's War Part 4
by TheManipulator
Summary: Jay Krenzik finds himself a hot property, as skilled mechanics are at a premium, and a tool for a powerful man with political aspirations to get what he wants as the last of humanity runs screaming across the galaxy.


Title: Krenzik's War-Part 4

Author: Manipulator

Word count: 8647

Rating: M

Spoilers: Between "You Can't Go Home Again" and "Litmus."

Disclaimer: BSG is property of NBC/Universal

Notes: This is part of a shared world started by ViperChickKaliyla and MRushgdi, telling the story of the civilians in the RTF. In this case, it is Jay Krenzik, a mechanic aboard the small freighter "Lady of Libron II." Rush was kind enough to let me utilize one of her characters in this story.

Soda isn't a breakfast staple, for good reason. All of us sat at a table, in the mess hall, each contemplating his own paper cup with a few centimeters of Blasto Lemon-Lime. I never cared for it much, to tell you the truth. It looked like piss, and barely had any flavor that resembled much of anything, let alone lemons and limes. Now, though, I wanted Blasto, more than words can say. In that cup, was the last I would ever taste, from perhaps the last can in the universe.

Caff sat on the edge of the table, at the head, contemplating the shiny aluminum can.

"Never been good for speeches," he said, raising the can in toast. "To better days! So say we all."

"So say we all," we repeated in unison.

Caff nodded to the cooks.

"Thank you Miss Lina, thank you, Neil."

Lina Hoffer, a round, grumpy woman, who was six months from retirement, gave a tight little smile back and nodded. She was the kind of person who showed she was a good sort solely through actions. I've met sharks that were more personable. Then again, if I had spent the last seventeen years of my working life listening to freighter jocks bitch about the menu, I probably would have been the same way.

Neil grinned and said: "No problem guys."

He was a wiry little guy who took the smallest compliment as if it were the greatest of praises. Working with Lina, it wasn't surprising he turned out that way.

The cooks went on about their business, clattering pots and pans, running water to clean the dishes.

Mangan snorted.

"I dunno what the big deal was," he said, as he rose with his tray, which held the last crumbs of egg and sausage on toast. "We pass around the last cigarette, and then I'll be gettin' sad." He dumped his trash in the bin, stacked his plate and silverware in the rubber bus tray on top. He shook out a smoke, clicked a flame to life on his lighter.

"Adam Mangan!"

Lina's booming voice echoed over the gray enamel. Caff rolled his eyes, and Toby hid his face in his ball cap, shoulders pumping as he tried to hide laughter. The rest of us smiled, doing our best to quell ours.

She came out, rubber-gloved hands on hips, rheumy eyes the raw essence of business.

"You know damn well there ain't no smokin' in my mess hall!"

Mangan glared at her for a moment, and grudgingly placed the lighter back in his pocket.

"Why couldn't the Cylons wait till you retired?"

Lina smiled broadly, then, showing her huge, very white dentures. Only angering our FTL tech seemed to brighten her day, even before the attack.

"You know you love me, Adam."

Before his name escaped her lips, Mangan was through the double doors heading for his place in the FTL room.

We all took that as our cue to let the guffaws roll. We all laughed a little too hard. We had spent the previous twelve ours in orbit around a miserable dust cloud of a moon. Galactica had lost a viper pilot who took on eight Cylon raiders. Stengler had us stay in orbit for hours after her air ran out. Feelings were mixed about the decision.

Nick had wanted us to pull out, since we were using so much gas. Ed, who agrees with him on nearly everything, even went so far as to go over Caff's head and join Nick in heading straight to CiC over it. There was a lot of finger pointing, a lot of anger. Marty, Toby, and I felt just fine about staying. Galactica and her pilots left none of us behind, and it didn't feel right doing so to them. Sure, all we did was serve as a possible emergency docking platform for any vipers who succumbed to the grit clogging their engines, and couldn't make it back to base, but we offered what we could. The Blasto ceremony was Caff's way of slapping a bandage on the wound opened between us that day.

It must have worked. Mangan was back to his old self, and Nick's face was maroon, as he brayed with donkey-like joy over his exit. The double doors to CiC then burst open with all the manly authority of Milt Jeffers.

"Not to interrupt happy-time, gentlemen," he said, brandishing his clipboard.

Caffrey stood immediately, and we all followed suit.

"I was about to give my guys the schedule, Mr. Jeffers."

"Don't bother," Jeffers replied, eyeing the printout in his hands. "It appears we have a load coming in this morning. Air filters, hoses, parts, you name it. And we're booked to dock with the repair platform next week to get the cooling system flushed and the main line replaced. Courtesy of President Roslin's office."

Jeffers looked over to me, and actually smiled. Granted, it was an arrogant, spare grin full of that world famous Milt Jeffers disdain for all under him, but he was actually happy with me.

"Good job, Krenzik. I don't know what you told Miss Thalyka, but it got the job done."

He turned away, grabbed a ceramic coffee mug from the start of the chow line, and poured himself a cup.

"Oh," he continued, turning back to us. "One more thing. We have another visitor, this afternoon. Jasper Bertrand. Says he's running for Quorum rep. Wants to do a meet and greet. You'll be paged when he arrives. Meet up here."

After the XO left, I was showered with pats on the back, proclamations of what a great job I did.

"Man," Marty said, in seeming awe. "Jeffers smiled at you. What's up with that?"

"Maybe he's got six months to live," Toby said, behind a mouthful of oatmeal, as he rose from the table.

Caffrey herded the gang out of the mess, but I still sat at the table, eyes looking past the half-eaten eggs that would stay that way.

Diana got it done. Sure, I said ten days, and she got everything here in eleven, but she was as true to her word as she could be. No small feat in politics. In some small way, I had hoped those last few minutes walking toward CiC, after punching through the veneer of bullshit civility did it. I wanted to think that I had a friend, even if she was an acquaintance whose job it was to be nice, to smile and nod and tell me "I'll take care of you." I needed friends beyond this tub.

He was the last person I wanted to be saddled with on filter-changing duty, but I knew that's why Caff placed me with Nick. He had taken my advice, well, Diana's advice, really, and had Marty with Coursen refurbishing the air filtration system, the biggest part of the job. Nick and I were going vent-by-vent, up top, from the warehouse, all the way back to CiC, while Toby and Caff handled down below.

Nick and I didn't talk about how we were almost forehead-to-forehead, sweat beading on his square block of a face, as he leaned up at me, jaw clenched. I stood my ground that night, as his rage escalated, each time I dismissed his panic-fueled reasons why we should have left Adama's pilot behind.

When I finally told him that maybe we should shove him out the airlock to conserve more fuel, Caff gently pulled me back, and Nick Sorg was off to CiC to bitch to the captain.

Now, though, we worked, cordially aloof, doing the job set out for us. No apologies, other than the silent agreement not to finish what we had started that night.

We were falling back into our old patterns. I don't know why I was surprised. I knew we would never end up holding hands singing, but in the most trying times, the best of humanity comes out. The selfish and weak extend a hand to their fellow man, cowards become heroes, and petty differences are pushed aside. I naively assumed that would last indefinitely.

The last filters were in place, in CiC. With a nod from the Captain, Jeffers paged Marty and Ed to fire up the atmosphere processor. By the time we were in the break room, down below, we could feel the temperature lower ten degrees within twenty minutes. I was ready to catch a shower, maybe catch a nap on my lunch break, before Caff told me what he wanted out of me next. The intercom chimed, though, demanding our presence in the mess hall. Jasper Bertrand had arrived

Diana Thalyka, of the Office of the President, had stood before us, telling us what was what. Not Bertrand. We all crowded around one table, the entire crew, as Bertrand loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves on his meticulously tailored white shirt, and mingled among us.

His energy was infectious as he eagerly answered our questions. He was a vital and healthy man in his early fifties, who made a fortune in the aerospace industry, building freighters. He took a modest family fortune, built on Libronese shipping, and made it blossom into an intercolonial, multi-billion-cubit empire. He lived on the luxury liner, somewhere in the four-story-high ring that spun in the eternal night we sailed through. Bertrand Multicolonial didn't own that vessel, but he owned a significant minority interest in the company that did. Bertrand's body language, the way he sometimes rested a hand on one of our shoulders, his energy, instilled a notion that we were all about to get to work.

"That's a good question, Adam," He said to Mangan, who asked him what made him the best choice for the Quorum of 12. "There's a lot we need to get done, to rebuild our society. Honestly, I stepped in and grabbed the bull by the horns. I was CEO of the fifth largest manufacturer of inter and intra-planetary aircraft in the Twelve Colonies. I can get people together to improve each other, and this fleet. I am in the best position to be our voice in the Quorum."

Needless to say, more questions erupted after that. He seemed to draw energy from the sea of voices, raised his hands, and we quieted down.

"Well, we have a long way to go, and a full plate, as I mentioned. But, unlike a lot of the new Twelve, I am not a professional politician. I don't care about the interoffice protocols that bog down a process that's supposed to be for us, the people. I didn't make a fortune sitting on my hands taking memos, and I certainly won't do that now. I'm not a bureaucrat, and I'm certainly not Tom Zarek."

The "Z Word." Oh yeah. From terrorist to statesman in a blink. Take a few hostages, then get a nice new suit, and a hand in shaping the future. I nodded earnestly. The buzz over the wireless pulled their punches on Zarek. Even the notoriously rancorous Colonial Gang played a little too nice in their debate over the same guy that blew up government buildings to make a point.

"As I've said, " Bertrand continued, making eye contact with me, seeming to note my silent affirmation, and the attention I made a point to give to his every word.

"What I'm looking for is to find ways we can take care of ourselves, and let the Galactica worry more about the Cylon threat, instead of bussing us around, and feeding us, too. Sure. There's no avoiding ships, like the Lady here, from tanking water from her, but can they really be expected to serve as public transportation, and a police force too?"

Mitchell, the comm officer, raised his hand, Bertrand nodded for him to go ahead.

"Well, don't the larger ships, especially the liners like yours have their own security forces?"

"Of course we do, but they weren't trained to handle the inflated populations that are a necessary result of creating a safe environment for all 45,000-plus of us. What everyone needs to do is not ask what we can get from Colonial One…"

He paused, his bright blue eyes widening a little. I found myself leaning forward.

"We need to ask what we can do for each other. How we can better ourselves, and help our fellow Libronese, and fellow Colonials in the process. My company had leased a four-story segment on this particular liner I'm on, for doing business abroad. I'm continuing to do so. I've been getting captains and crews to the bargaining table. So far, I have the beginnings of a civilian shuttle network from three vessels, in exchange for goods and services from other ships--"

"What about some of the rinkydink passenger liners and such," I interjected. For every ship that had parts or rations to offer for transportation, there had to be three other ships with nothing but pleading hands.

"Well," he continued, without breaking his rhetorical stride. "The mutual benefits the transport network set up with the more well-off ships offsets the additional costs of operation. And remember, fuel is free, right now. So it's not the intricate operation that can break the back of smaller infrastructures in a more conventional setting."

I almost cracked a smile at that one. That was the smoothest euphemism for mass-genocide breathing down our necks that I'd ever heard.

"Basically, gentlemen," he continued. "I'm here to ask you what you can bring to the table, so you can get what you need faster, and let the military stick to the job of protecting us, and assist President Roslin in getting everyone back on track as fast as possible."

We all looked at one another, uncertainly. It wasn't often someone in a 5000-cubit suit came to knuckledraggers and shipping lane pilots for help. Then again, the brink of extinction was new to all of us.

Captain Stengler cleared his throat. "Well, we know a lot of the smaller vessels don't have any mechanics, or a fully equipped machine shop."

Bertrand pumped clenched fists in affirmation.

"Yes! Mechanics are at a definite premium in this fleet. And there are other vessels with fork trucks, auto-lifts, you name it, that they don't either have the know-how or the manpower to maintain. Now, what else?"

The energy level dropped as fast as it spiked up. Beyond general maintenance and repair, we didn't have much. All we had was warehouse space. I knew for a fact Colonial Movers, among others, had way more space to offer than we did. Then, an idea flashed before me. Given the circumstances, the unmentionable just became a viable option.

"What about the still?"

Caff's jaw hung open as his eyes fixed on me. I could tell, had Bertrand not been here, he would have verbally taken a chunk out of my ass. Mangan grimaced as his gaze found the linoleum. Nick, Ed, and Toby just shook their heads, as though I just let a firing squad into the mess. I didn't have to look at Jeffers to know that his face was turning groovy shades of maroon.

Bertrand sidled up to me, tilted his head quizzically, as he made a steeple with his fingers.

"Still?"

The captain waved a hand as he interjected, the color drained from his face.

"I'm sorry. Earlier this year, we had a problem with…"

"We were makin' white liquor with a still we made from parts," Caff finished. "It was in direct violation of company policy--"

"And colonial law," Jeffers said, with the timing he reserved for pointing out the blatantly obvious.

Mercifully, at least, he didn't bring up the fact that our near mass termination occurred because Marty's predecessor, Dave Trichosek, got looped on our home brew, and Jeffers found him passed out in his boxers in a restroom stall, one morning. Trichosek was a dickhead, anyway. Two years of his slack-assed work habits came to an end, but we had to sacrifice our little home intoxication lab, in the process.

"Well," Bertrand replied to our XO, the energy in his eyes rekindled. "That's not necessarily the case. It's illegal to transport untaxed liquor between colonies. However, I've looked into how that may or may not apply to our situation. Every indication shows that there's no such thing as 'between colonies' any longer. And there is currently no alcohol tax, whatsoever. It could be done. That is a very good commodity to have right now."

We were all smiles now. The officers visibly relaxed, as we all realized that the old Lady had something special going on.

"And," Caffrey said. "We can always change the mix to create solvent." He nodded to our Shipping Clerk, Briar. "How many drums we got left up in the warehouse?"

Briar shrugged. "Four or five. That's it. We were supposed to load up in port on Tauron before the bombs hit."

Jasper Bertrand clapped his hands, then rubbed them together.

"Well, gentlemen, I think we have a solid list of goods and services the Lady of Libron II can offer." He then looked at Stengler. "With the Captain's approval, of course."

Stengler nodded once in solid affirmation.

"I can speak for my crew and say we're happy to do our part. In any way possible."

Before leaving, Bertrand shook all our hands, as though we were the captains of industry in the brave new world, running screaming from the Cylons.

Caff was introducing Marty to the delicate art of homemade booze, as I loaded up a metal 2-liter can with solvent from one of the barrels up top. 36 hours after Jasper Bertrand got our collective foot in the door of the new so-called Colonial economy, he called up the Lady. We had a job. This one was for Bertrand himself. The atmosphere processor on a passenger liner full of orphaned children needed fixed. For humanitarian effort on his behalf, the Lady would get a month's new rations, and some leads on possible customers for our home brew. That was a good deal for a routine two hours of work. I wondered, though, why Bertrand had asked specifically for me.

I shouldered my tool belt and a backpack, containing a compatible cpu kit for their processor, along with the can of solvent.

The liner was a standard light-heavy tub, Lenar class, out of Picon. Mainly it was designed for shuttle runs between spaceports and stations. These things had no business being out of port longer than 72 hours. I had a feeling the air circulation wasn't the only problem.

Birson, their first officer, greeted me in a cramped hallway after we locked in a hard seal. He shook my hand a little too vigorously as I introduced myself.

"Thank the Gods you're here, Jay," he said. "We did have the air fixed a while back, after a rep came from Colonial One, and talked with Miss Evers--"

His words picked up a giddy sort of speed. He wasn't going manic, but his elation at seeing a grease monkey didn't bode well for what must be down below. Which led me to interrupt him.

"Okay, okay. Back up. Who's Miss Evers?"

"She's the teacher. She's the one watching over around 40 orphans. I'm just warning you, like I did Mr. Bertrand, that it's not pretty."

More answers led to more questions with this poor guy. I wanted to sit him down and get the full picture, soothe his nerves with a shot of the Lady's homebrew and a smoke. What was Bertrand doing here? More importantly, why were we heading down below, when all the ductwork was up top?

I asked him why, and he just replied: "Bertrand wants to see you before you get to work. He's down below, with the kids."

I sneered, as he led the way. Yeah, let the baby kissing begin. Election time was just a few months off. To be fair, he had a decent plan for getting the fleet to work with each other, but I failed to see what he could offer, if Roslin's office still had 40 kids crammed in this bucket.

I thought my jaw muscles would tear, as I prevented myself from gagging. The air down here was intolerable, and this was from a guy that worked in the guts of a freighter. I tried to picture Diana, in her gray power suit, her lips painted that corporate pink, maintaining porcelain civility, walking down this very hallway. I could hear the bustling and chatter of young ones.

Birson abruptly faced me, his face showing nothing but the urge to return up top right now.

"Well, Bertrand's in there," he said, tilting his head toward the doorway, and forty children. "There's a service duct that leads up to the processor at the other end."

"Yeah, okay, but--"

He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

"And I don't know what I can offer you. We don't have anything, but if you ever need a favor--you or your shipmates, we'll do whatever we can for you."

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. The gratitude in his eyes scared me. I felt as if I were standing at the edge of a pool, and he was in the water, clutching onto me, as though I was the only one who could lift him out.

I was just a knuckledragger, but to him, I was Zeus come down, with a tool belt on his shoulder, and a jug of solvent.

I was alone, and I turned toward the passenger compartment, its sea of kids. All colors, shapes, sizes, ages. A few looked to be over twelve, with a couple teens mixed in. As I stepped in the room, I felt their eyes upon me.

Rumpled clothes, tangled hair, sadness mingled with a kid's innate, hyper-driven curiosity surrounded me in a flock. Before I could ask one of these dirty faces where Bertrand and their teacher were, I felt a tug on my pant leg. A little, black-haired girl, with medium brown skin looked up at me. She hid behind a blue and white stuffed rabbit, clutched in her arms. She had to be around three, no older.

"Can you tell me when my mommy's coming back?"

Oh yeah, she was a baby, when there was no room for babies anymore.

My jaw worked, until all I could manage was to say what I was thinking.

"Kid, I-I'm just the mechanic."

A redhaired, chunky boy, maybe ten, pulled the little girl close, as she just looked at me.

"Mecskasik?" Her face scrunched up, as she pratfell all over the word.

"She, uh, doesn't understand," he said.

"Neither do I. Where's Miss Evers at?"

He pointed toward the rear of the compartment, and said she was with "some old dude."

I wondered how we were able to get filters, lines, circuit cards, the first crack at the repair platform. They couldn't get anything for these kids? I thought about all the other little short-range liners, over, down, kilometers away from Galactica and Colonial One. Earth was out there. Even if I didn't believe it, I would have forced myself to. I couldn't imagine hurtling through uncharted space, enduring this for nothing.

At the back, Bertrand, in jeans, and a gray dress shirt was talking to a haggard woman in a worn sweatshirt and khakis. Her hair was in a messy topknot, above dark-circled eyes. It was hard to tell, underneath all the fatigue, but I figured she was around my age. Her arms were folded, as she looked up at him, nodding raptly.

"And I promise, Elizabeth," he said. "That paper and pencils are on the way, thanks to Captain Zemmins of the Magnolia Sun. Also, no later than tomorrow morning, you will have all the toiletries you need."

I cleared my throat, nodded to the man who called for me.

"I'm here, Mr. Bertrand."

Before I could introduce myself, Elizabeth Evers' face lit up, with probably her first genuine smile since we jumped beyond the red line.

She immediately hugged me, then pulled away to regain her composure. I still couldn't wrap my mind around all this, why I was so important, even though it was obvious. No one was supposed to be overjoyed to see the guy coming to fix your air. He was a necessary annoyance, until your life returned to normal, signaled by his exit.

"I'm sorry. It's just that the air is broken again, and we've been waiting for days. I'm Elizabeth Evers. I'm in charge of the kids, whom you've already met."

She managed a weak laugh. I smiled as warmly as I could, even though a small, but vocal part of my mind wanted to just run screaming, pretend I never saw any of this.

"Jay Krenzik. It'll be no problem."

Bertrand nodded.

"Jay is from the Lady of Libron II. I remembered you said that someone from the Astral Queen was slated to come by tomorrow, but, given your situation, I thought it would be a good idea to get someone you could feel safer around, and also more familiar with the equipment. Now go on, and take care of the young ones. We have it in hand."

We exchanged goodbyes, and she shifted mode, into a surprisingly strong teacher's voice, finally turning their attention away from me. Take heart, though, kiddies. The amazing Krenzik will still perform his world famous de-gunk the filter trick. No applause, just throw money.

Bertrand patted me on the back, as he led me to the service duct.

"Glad you're here, Krenzik. These poor folks need all the help they can get."

I almost wanted to laugh. I was waiting for him to give me breaking news that the twelve colonies were destroyed, and that the Cylons were after us.

"Well, I'm glad I can do something, Mr. Bertrand, but what was that about the Astral Queen? And how in the hell did Colonial One miss--"

"I'll explain later," he said, cutting me off, handing me a keycard. "After you get done, here, tell the shuttle pilot to drop you off at gate D-5 on the luxury liner. Pop that key into the slot, inside the elevator. It'll take you straight up to my suite."

"Right."

I eyed the silver card, embossed with the Bertrand Multicolonial logo on one side, and a magnetic strip on the back.

"How long should it take," he asked.

"Probably three hours. Most of that is going to involve getting all the junk off the filter. Swapping the chipset shouldn't be a huge deal."

"Good man. I'll see you when you're done."

And, just like that, he was gone, in that courteous, smooth haste that the rich and busy seem so proficient at, sifting through the children. They were all centered around Elizabeth Evers, who was starting up a game of hot potato, with a torn, half-stuffed ragball. I was glad to head up that ladder.

My hands trembled as I laid out my tools for the job. The more I tried to steady them, the more my fingers shook. I finally sat on my butt, leaned against the atmosphere processor, and lit a smoke. Two cigarettes later, my hands were finally steady, then I got to work.

Elizabeth Evers led her students in a unified, emphatic "thank you," before I left. I bounded up the steps, two at a time, nearly tripping with my gear. Birson shook hands with me, once again, way too long and with too much zeal. He reminded me that if I needed any favor, within his power, it was mine. Since it was evident he couldn't even do jack shit for anybody on his own ship, I just told him I was just trying to help.

We docked against the luxury liner's great spinning ring. I never realized how much was actually inside this thing, until my shuttle jockey did a pass leading up the fuselage, proceeding after, toward the carousel. I wondered if people were crammed together, in here, forgotten about, or lost in the shuffle, as everyone scrambled to making surviving into living.

The shuttle terminal at Gate D was practically empty. A neatly had printed sign was posted at the ramp, indicating shuttle times. Evidently, the last regular shuttle had left several hours ago. Jasper Bertrand wasn't blowing smoke, evidently, he was getting the beginnings of a real civilian-run transport network going on.

My footsteps echoed across the marbleized tile. It was so clean in here, compared to the Picon liner, to the Lady, and I bet even more than just about any other vessel in the fleet. Then again, I had to remind myself, this was only a shuttle terminal. I had no idea what things were like on the decks in the fuselage, or within the ring itself. I entered the elevator, slid the keycard in its slot. I faced a clear window that would have given me a tremendous view of nebulae, or the rings of nearby planets, during better days. The brushed steel of the double doors slid open, and I almost didn't want to get out.

A raven-haired woman sat behind a lacquered wooden desk. Leather chairs sat in front of her, in a horseshoe around a coffee table. Leafy, plastic plants sat to either side of the elevator. Everything looked and felt so normal. Then again, what was normal anymore? I stepped out, and she looked up, her burgundy-colored lips stretching in a corporate-sensible grin.

"Mr. Krenzik, Mr. Bertrand has been waiting for you. Follow me."

She wore a black pantsuit that showed no traces of the rumple and wear that radiated from Diana Thalyka when she visited the Lady. You'd never know the world collapsed, as far as she was concerned.

At the end of the hall, she knocked on a large oak-finish door, then opened it for me, after Bertrand said to come in.

Across lush burgundy carpet, he sat, behind an ornate desk with inlaid mother-of-pearl accents. The walls were lined with ceiling-high bookshelves, packed with volumes that I wanted to peer at more closely. A pang of sorrow ripped through me, as I realized that I didn't own any books, on the Lady. One dog-eared issue of "Pyramid Weekly" was it.

He immediately rose from his high-backed padded chair and came around to shake my hand.

"Ah, good to see you, Krenzik," he said, as he took my hand firmly in his. Then he nodded to his receptionist. "That'll be all, Mona."

With that, she shut the door behind us, and we were alone.

"You want a drink," he asked me, as he eased across the room to a small wet bar behind his desk.

"Thanks but I'm on the clock," I said, knowing I failed not to still be awed at all the luxury that surrounded me.

"Don't worry about that," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "One won't get you fired, will it? Besides, we have a lot to talk about."

He had already poured a glass of whiskey from a delicate crystal decanter, for himself, and had another rocks glass alongside.

"You alright with Old Geminon?"

Old Geminon? That was the finest single malt whiskey in the Twelve Colonies, aged 30 years in oak casks by one distiller in one town on that world. One bottle was worth more than what I made in a week. I just nodded.

"You like it on the rocks," he asked.

"Neat."

This room, his casual professionalism, the bottles of gloriously expensive liquor, all didn't indicate anything had changed. One could just imagine that we were on a cruise through the outer fringes of the colonies, maybe on a tour of the asteroid clusters near Leon. The only thing out of place in this office was me.

Bertrand gestured for me to sit, as he handed me my drink. I complied, easing back into an overstuffed leather chair as he slid back behind his desk.

I couldn't resist inhaling the bouquet of the Old Geminon I cradled in my hand. There was a strong oak impression, with, it seemed, a little undercurrent of sherry. My Dad took me out for a drink on my 21st birthday, before my friends got get a hold of me for the compulsory pub crawl. He ordered up two shots of Old Geminon. Neat. He told me what I was smelling, and how each taste had distinct phases and flavors, all the way down to the finish at the back of my throat.

"Just because you're not rich doesn't mean you shouldn't have taste. You need to know what's good, Jay," he told me, before we made a toast to the future, and knocked back the finest whiskey ever made.

"So, Krenzik," Jasper Bertrand asked me, leaning back in his seat, holding his rocks glass up to the light. "What should we drink to?"

I thought of us, that morning, sitting in the mess hall with our little cups of lemon-lime Blasto.

"To better days," I said. He had already raised his glass, evidently ready to toast just about anything. I could have said "To your receptionist's heart-shaped ass," and he would have still sounded the words back to me, and knocked back his drink.

I took down half the shot, letting the Old Geminon linger on my tongue, then slide down, leaving the honeyed finish I knew was waiting for me.

"You look like you know what you're drinking there, Krenzik," Bertrand said, nodding in approval. "Just because you don't have a fat wallet doesn't mean you shouldn't have taste. I know, well, knew, very affluent men and women, power magnates, captains of industry, who had no taste at all. They'd treat that glass just the same as if they had been drinking swill."

"I was taught money doesn't equal culture, Mr. Bertrand," I said, still holding on to that last bit of alcohol. After all, it was some of the last in the universe.

"Quite right. It also doesn't equal smarts or motivation, either. I noticed, yesterday, when I visited the Lady of Libron II, that everybody else avoided bringing up your still. You had to know the Captain, the other officers, your floor boss, they wouldn't be happy one bit with you bringing it up with a guy like me aboard. Why did you?"

I didn't see anything special, or distinctive in my actions. I wondered what his angle was. Why the guy who fixed the A/C and keeps a junk freighter running for a living was sitting in here.

"We needed something to offer," I replied, shrugging. "Why not bring it up?"

He steepled his fingers before him, and nodded emphatically. "You saw an opening, and you took it. You knew what had to be done."

"I guess," I said. "It's no big deal. It wasn't like I'd get written up or--"

"Yes!"

Bertrand hit the desktop with an open palm, then got up, came around and leaned against the oak and mother of pearl. He smiled, showing a mouth full of straight, white teeth.

"You knew the score. The rules have changed. People are creatures of habit, Krenzik. Even more than they realize. That applies to the rules and regulations they choose to abide by. You were the only one who knew that all the company regulations and Colonial laws that kept you from having that still didn't exist any longer. Did you notice how everyone around you acted after? How it was like a grand epiphany had been revealed?"

I just stared at him. I was glad somebody could find something to get excited about, as we held off extinction for a little while longer, but the moment he spoke of couldn't be that big of a deal, could it?

He chuckled softly.

"Okay, Let me make my point, here. After you got the ball rolling with your shipmates on the still, I did a little digging and noticed that yours was one of the first ships to get the parts you needed, and booked for the repair platform. You saw that Picon liner, full of unwashed kids, bad air. They didn't have a damn thing they needed yet. What little they did receive was used up, probably within days. Your ship had the same person from Roslin's office they did. Why did you move to the front of the pack?"

I thought of how I had stretched the truth to its absolute limits when Diana asked me what would break down and when. I apparently did a lousy job of hiding my apprehension from Bertrand to spill the beans.

"Krenzik, listen to me. This is strictly between you and me. I'm not worried about bending Laura Roslin's ear about much of anything. I want to know. You had a hand in that, didn't you?"

I slugged back the rest of my Old Geminon, and dove into my story. I told him how Caff and the rest of maintenance designated me their mouthpiece, gave me the question box, and how I was the tour guide. He beamed knowingly when I came to the part about telling Diana we needed a new main coolant line in two weeks instead of a month, and air filters in ten days, instead of weeks.

"That was pretty much it really, Mr. Bertrand."

"Sounds like you stretched the truth a bit. But that's what it took to get the job done. You knew damn well the mess on their hands on Colonial One. If you had said a month on those air filters, you would have gotten them in two. Who told you to say what you did?"

"Nobody. I--"

"That's what I'm talking about, Krenzik. Follow me."

He led me out of his office, through double doors, into a dining room every bit as ornate as his office. The floor was gray and gold-flecked marble, and the lacquered table had seats for eight. The far wall was an immense window, looking out over space, and most of the Colonial fleet. To the upper right, was Galactica. Below that was Colonial One. I leaned over and saw all the ships below us, and could just make out the squat Lady, so far down.

"People think we're continuing on. They're wrong," Bertrand said. "We're starting over. Sure, the Cylons are after us, make no mistake. We're under the gun. But, we're at the beginning of a new age, not the end of the old. The colonies were founded by men and women of action, who knew what had to be done--and did it."

He waved his hand over the ships that stood out against the infinity of stars, as if he was the only reason they were there.

"The time of professional politicians, used to waiting, talking and hacking out everything in committees is over. This new era belongs to those who act. I know that, and if you think about it, you do too."

I raised an eyebrow over that last line. He was schmoozing me. Why?

"I see what you're saying, but I'm just a mechanic--"

"No, no, no, Krenzik. You're thinking in the old terms, under the old rules. There's no such thing as just a mechanic, any longer. The new game makes you special."

I wasn't clueless. I realized early that my skills were essential to making a fleet like this run, especially with all the sparsely manned ships that didn't carry maintenance crews, but how I was suddenly special went over my head as easily as the vipers and raptors that patrolled the fleet every day.

"I don't quite understand, Mr. Bertrand."

"Okay, " he said, facing me now. "You know the old adage about the Colonial way. Work hard enough and build yourself up, and there, supposedly, there isn't anything you can't accomplish, right?"

I nodded.

"We both know that isn't quite true, right?"

My eyes widened. I never thought I would hear that statement come from someone of affluence. Nobody with a fat wallet wanted to hear they had it easier, let alone say it.

"Right."

"Sure, you can rise somewhat above your initial station. Tell me, how did you end up a freighter jock?"

I told him about Zosimo, growing up in that little mill town, where the whole place shut down to go see the high school Pyramid games, and how I earned a scholarship to Libron Tech to play the game. I told him how the warranty expired on my body, and I didn't think coming off the bench was worth the grief any longer. I didn't tell him how angry Dad was that I dropped out when I decided to go to mechanic's school and traipse around the system maintaining freighters. Or how Mom had felt I was wasting my mind. I did tell him the last part though.

"I figured I'd find out what I ultimately want to sooner or later."

Bertrand nodded, as though I had carved a path to a grand truth.

"Sure, Krenzik. I built a multi-billion-cubit powerhouse of a company, but I was born a millionaire, already. Had I not, sure. I could carved out a small fortune, maybe. But I wouldn't have a penthouse like this leased out on a luxury cruise ship like this, just in case I needed it. President Roslin is President Roslin because everybody else in a rigid and inflexible system is dead. She became the Secretary of Education because her family was already embedded in that system, because the doors were opened to her in all the right schools, and she was handed all the opportunities to rise in government. The same goes for all her cabinet."

This time it was me who nodded emphatically. For the first time, I was listening to someone who had power, who had no shame in admitting how the worlds worked.

"That's right," Bertrand continued. "If the Cylons hadn't bombed the human race into oblivion, there is no way in hell you'd be standing here with me, drinking Old Geminon. I wouldn't give you the time of day. I wouldn't need too. But need people like you, Krenzik. Men with the skills, but who also can think outside the box. I can't afford to surround myself with coddled asskissers and yesmen. I need people who are willing to get things done, and not lean on the old paradigm. You with me so far?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so--"

"Good. Here's what's going on. You know the President is up for reelection, per the Articles. Well, there's going to be a new Quorum of Twelve. I plan on winning the seat for Libron. Right now, Colonial One is in the middle of a brand new mess, trying to set up an election system, registering voters by colony of origin all over this fleet. They can't even get everyone fed and clothed properly, but they're going to add that to the list, too. By Colonial Day, there will be a new Quorum."

My stomach knotted. How were they going to get a new Twelve in place by Colonial Day? They had enough problems keeping 73 ships fed, clothed, and running, without adding more red tape and headaches.

I was, evidently continuing to do a lousy job of hiding what I was thinking. Bertrand patted me on the shoulder, and sighed.

"Yeah, why mince words? Roslin's office is under an even bigger pile of shit than it was before. That's where we come in. The people that dive right in and just do it! Now, I'm not the only one that knows this. Tom Zarek does too. What's your opinion of him?"

That was easy enough to answer. There was one sure thing in the gamble that was the Fleet.

"He's bad news. A fascist who wants the worlds run his way."

"Damn straight. Right now, he knows the same thing we do. He's out there with his little chain gang, repairing ships, getting them what he can. And he's bending some ears. He's got people thinking that Tom Zarek can save them. And Roslin can't do a damn thing to counter him."

I looked back over the fleet again. I realized this was the first time I had really seen it as a whole. Our little observation deck on the Lady couldn't give me this view. This was an immense convoy, yet it was so insignificant, compared to the numbers who didn't make it. This was all we had left, in Bertrand's so-called new era.

"So, I guess you plan to?"

"Smart man. I am already. Today, on that Picon liner, I wanted you to come down through the passenger compartment, instead of straight up to the atmosphere processor. I wanted the kids to see you. I wanted that teacher to see the kids seeing you. I wanted her to remember you. And I've been doing that all week. That's just the beginning."

I was smart enough to see his opportunistic streak. He was setting himself up as the hub through which we traded with one another. I thought back at the joy in Elizabeth Evers' eyes when he told her about soap, and papers and pencils, how her gut level reaction was to hug the mechanic, that Bertrand made a point to note was there thanks to him. He didn't go down there and save everybody, he hooked you up with the guy that did. Bertrand had set himself up with an easy workload of handshaking while networking ships together, sustaining themselves and each other. He was trying to run the new era, as he lived in this lavish time capsule of the old.

"So," I said. "You have mechanics all over the fleet, bartering with you on the charity jobs, or pointing them toward what they need, hooking 'em up with others."

"Right. But, whenever I can, I find out where Tom Zarek's going to send his boys, and I beat 'em to the punch. Sure, maybe Captain A would love free labor, but hey, Captain B's guys aren't felons, and that gives both parties a rapport down the line. It empowers them. Tom Zarek wants to be the only answer. I give people choices."

I had trouble, picturing Zarek as anything but a corralled nutjob trying to look good. How could be be that dangerous to the political process? It was no secret he wanted to bring down the house, in this tenous setup that was the fleet, but who would listen to him?

As if he knew what I was thinking, Bertrand continued.

"Make no mistake, Tom Zarek's making friends. He's milking the whole 'earning redemption through service' thing like there's no tomorrow, because he wants Sagittaron's seat on the new Quorum. Being the stickler for rules that he claims to be, he will also probably move for election of a vice president. And he wants it. You want Tom Zarek one heartbeat away from the presidency?"

I shook my head. I thought I could see what he was driving at.

"So, you want that spot for yourself?"

"No," he said, dismissing my question with a wave of his hand. "If I became VP, now, I would place my political future in the hands of Roslin. I would be forever linked to her failure or success. I'm setting the stage, not for seven months from now, but four years beyond that."

I stared at him, unable to say anything. I felt my eyes widen. He was the only person who laid down a timeframe for anything beyond tomorrow, or the bold long-range view of next week. Our lives revolved around living for the next day, making our way through the galaxy one jump at a time, with no guarantees on the other end. Here was a guy who was planning in terms of years. What balls.

"I know what you're thinking, Krenzik. How can I think in terms of years? Somebody has to. Roslin can't. Tom Zarek wants to get his cult of personality going now, without a thought of the society we need build, or how to do it. I'm going to help society rebuild itself."

While this was, obviously, tremendously interesting. I still had no idea why he needed to meet me here, show me all this opulence, and let me in on his plan. He brought me here because I wasn't afraid to ask the hard questions, so I went ahead and asked.

"Why are you confiding all this to me? Why all this? Why not just call up the Lady and send us on. Why did you want me, specifically?"

"Krenzik, it's like I told you," he said, beckoning me to follow him back into his office, which I did. "You have skills essential to this fleet's survival, combined with the mindset we need to build our new society. I want to be your friend, but I also want you to be mine. Things will be moving very fast in the coming months, and I need people in the field I can count on. You may not believe it, but you're the guy that's been keeping the Lady of Libron II afloat since we made our run from the Cylons. We can make a lot of great things happen."

I raised an eyebrow at that last line. Sure, I could understand why he liked the way I thought, and he wanted an army of mechanics to get the fleet saying his name. But beyond that, he still didn't answer my question.

"What things?"

"I see a real political future for you, Krenzik. You're not afraid to get your hands dirty, but you can see the larger picture, see the institutions we live by for the flexible paradigms that they really are. And you're not some bureaucrat who's removed from the very society you're supposed to serve. In a few years, I'll need more men like you on staff. There's a future for you beyond that tub you're on, if you want it badly enough."

He extended his hand, for me to shake. I was supposed to be my own person, think outside the box, as he said. I couldn't help feeling I was selling a little of myself, even if his quasi-ethical ideas did seem like a good plan of action. Then, I thought about Tom Zarek wanting the top spot, and maybe getting it.

I grasped his hand firmly, and shook.

"Good man, Krenzik. Roslin will get it done soon. Zarek will in a couple days. We'll get it done by lunch."

The next morning, Jeffers tacked up a printout on our bulletin board down below. The Captain of the Picon liner sent his sincere thanks for fixing the air, naming me specifically. We also had a shipment of fresh fruit and vegetables come in, courtesy of Jasper Bertrand, for the job. Among the crates was a plain white, two-foot long gift box, with a card made out to me.

Caff, and the rest were huddled around me, in the break room as I read the card. It was from Jasper Bertrand. It read: "Thanks for knowing a good thing when you see it-J.B."

I cracked open the box to reveal a fifth of Old Geminon.

iWe've got provisions, and lots of beer

The keyword is survival on the new frontier/i--Donald Fagan


End file.
